UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


MUSIC 
AND   OTHER    POEMS 


AND  OTHER 
POEMS 


VAN 


47459 

Hodder  &   Stovightorv 
London        MCMXXI 


Copyright,  1904,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  for  (lie 
United  States  of  America 


Printed  by  The  Scribner  Kress 
New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

MY   SON    TERTIUS 
THIS    BOOK    IS    DEDICATED 


CONTENTS 

ODES  Page 

Music  3 

Peace  25 

Victor  Hugo  29 

God  of  the  Open  Air  33 

SONNETS 

Work  49 

Life  5° 

Love  51 

The  Child  in  the  Garden  52 

Love's  Reason  53 

Portrait  and  Reality  54 

The  Wind  of  Sorrow  55 

Patria  56 

LEGENDS 

A  Legend  of  Service                            •»  59 

The  Vain  King                                      \  65 

LYRICS 

A  Mile  with  Me  75 

Spring  in  the  South  76 

Love's  Nearness  78 

Two  Schools  79 

A  Prayer  for  a  Mother's  Birthday  81 

Indian  Summer  83 

One  World  85 

Hide  and  Seek  86 

Dulcis  Memoria  90 

Autumn  in  the  Garden  92 

The  Message  95 

Light  Between  the  Trees  97 

Reliance  100 
vii 


GREETINGS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS  Page 

Katrina's  Sun-dial  105 

To  James  Whitcomb  Riley  106 

A  Health  to  Mark  Twain  107 

A  Rondeau  of  College  Rhymes  108 

The  Mocking-bird  109 

The  Empty  Quatrain  no 

Inscriptions  for  a  Friend's  House  in 

The  Statue  of  Sherman  by  St.  Gaudens  115 

The  Sun-dial  at  Wells  College  116 


ODES 


MUMC 


PRELUDE 

DAUGHTER  of  Psyche,  pledge  of  that  last  night 
When,   pierced   with   pain   and   bitter-sweet 

delight, 

She  knew  her  Love  and  saw  her  Lord  depart, 
Then  breathed  her  wonder  and  her  woe  forlorn 
Into  a  single  cry,  and  thou  wast  born ! 
Thou  flower  of  rapture  and  thou  fruit  of  grief ; 
Invisible  enchantress  of  the  heart ; 
Mistress  of  charms  that  bring  relief 
To  sorrow,  and  to  joy  impart 
A  heavenly  tone  that  keeps  it  undefiled,  — 

Thou  art  the  child 
Of  Amor,  and  by  right  divine 

A  throne  of  love  is  thine, 
Thou  flower-folded,  golden-girdled,  star-crowned 

Queen, 
Whose  bridal  beauty  mortal  eyes  have  never  seen ! 


II 

Thou  art  the  Angel  of  the  pool  that  sleeps, 
While  peace  and  joy  lie  hidden  in  its  deeps, 
Waiting  thy  touch  to  make  the  waters  roll 
In  healing  murmurs  round  the  weary  soul. 

Ah,  when  wilt  thou  draw  near, 
Thou  messenger  of  mercy  robed  in  song? 
My  lonely  heart  has  listened  for  thee  long ; 

And  now  I  seem  to  hear 
Across  the  crowded  market-place  of  life, 
Thy  measured  foot-fall,  ringing  light  and  clear 
Above  the  unmeaning  noises  and  the  unruly  strife ; 
In  quiet  cadence,  sweet  and  slow, 
Serenely  pacing  to  and  fro, 
Thy  far-off  steps  are  magical  and  dear. 
Ah,  turn  this  way,  come  close  and  speak  to  me ! 
From  this  dull  bed  of  languor  set  my  spirit  free, 
And  bid  me  rise,  and  let  me  walk  awhile  with  thee 


Ill 

Where  wilt  thou  lead  me  first? 
In  what  still  region 

Of  thy  domain, 
Whose  provinces  are  legion, 
Wilt  thou  restore  me  to  myself  again, 

And  quench  my  heart's  long  thirst? 
I  pray  thee  lay  thy  golden  girdle  down, 
And  put  away  thy  starry  crown: 
For  one  dear  restful  hour 
Assume  a  state  more  mild. 
Clad  only  in  thy  blossom-broidered  gown 
That  breathes  familiar  scent  of  many  a  flower, 
Take  the  low  path  that  leads  thro'  pastures  green ; 

And  though  thou  art  a  Queen, 
Be  Rosamund  awhile,  and  in  thy  bower, 
By  tranquil  love  and  simple  joy  beguiled, 
Sing  to  my  soul,  as  mother  to  her  child. 


IV 

PLAY   SONG 

O  lead  me  by  the  hand, 
And  let  my  heart  have  rest, 
And  bring  me  back  to  childhood  land, 
To  find  again  the  long-lost  band 
Of  playmates  blithe  and  blest. 

Some  quaint,  old-fashioned  air, 
That  all  the  children  knew, 
Shall  run  before  us  everywhere, 
Like  a  little  maid  with  flying  hair. 
To  guide  the  merry  crew. 


Along  the  garden  ways 
We  chase  the  light-foot  tune, 
And  in  and  out  the  flowery  maze, 
With  eager  haste  and  fond  delays 
In  pleasant  paths  of  June. 


For  us  the  fields  are  new, 

For  us  the  woods  are  rife 
With  fairy  secrets,  deep  and  true, 
And  heaven  is  but  a  tent  of  blue 

Above  the  game  of  life. 

The  world  is  far  away : 

The  fever  and  the  fret, 
And  all  that  makes  the  heart  grow  gray, 
Is  out  of  sight  and  far  away, 
Dear  Music,  while  I  hear  thee  play 
That  olden,  golden  roundelay, 

"  Remember  and  forget  i " 


SLEEP  SONG 

Forget,  forget! 
The  tide  of  life  is  turning ; 
The  waves  of  light  ebb  slowly  down  the  west : 
Along  the  edge  of  dark  some  stars  are  burning 
To  guide  thy  spirit  safely  to  an  isle  of  rest. 
A  little  rocking  on  the  tranquil  deep 

Of  song,  to  soothe  thy  yearning, 
A  little  slumber  and  a  little  sleep, 
And  so,  forget,  forget ! 

Forget,  forget,  — 
The  day  was  long  in  pleasure ; 
Its  echoes  die  away  across  the  hill ; 
Now  let   thy   heart   beat  time   to  their   slow 

measure, 
That  swells,  and  sinks,  and  faints,  and  falls,  till 

all  is  still. 
Then,  like  a  weary  child  that  loves  to  keep 

Locked  in  its  arms  some  treasure, 
Thy  soul  in  calm  content  shall  fall  asleep, 
And  so  forget,  forget. 


Forget,  forget,  — 
And  if  thou  hast  been  weeping, 
Let  go  the  thoughts  that  bind  thee  to  thy 

grief: 

Lie  still,  and  watch  the  singing  angels,  reaping 

The  golden  harvest  of  thy  sorrow,  sheaf  by  sheaf ; 

Or  count  thy  joys  like  flocks  of  snow-white 

sheep 

That  one  by  one  come  creeping 
Into  the  quiet  fold,  until  thou  sleep, 
And  so  forget,  forget ! 

Forget,  forget,  — 
Thou  art  a  child  and  knowest 
So  little  of  thy  life !    But  music  tells 
One  secret  of  the  world  thro'  which  thou  goes! 
To  work  with  morning  song,  to  rest  with  evening 

bells : 
Life  is  in  tune  with  harmony  so  deep 

That  when  the  notes  are  lowest 
Thou  still  canst  lay  thee  down  in  peace  and 

sleep, 
For  God  will  not  forget. 


VI 

HUNTING   SONG 

Out  of  the  garden  of  playtime,  out  of  the  bower 

of  rest, 
Fain  would  I  follow  at  daytime,  music  that  calls 

to  a  quest. 

Hark,  how  the  galloping  measure 
Quickens  the  pulses  of  pleasure ; 

Gaily  saluting  the  morn 

With  the  long,  clear  note  of  the  hunting-horn, 
Echoing  up  from  the  valley, 

Over  the  mountain  side,  — 
Rally,  you  hunters,  rally, 
Rally,  and  ride! 


Drink  of  the  magical  potion  music  has  mixed 

with  her  wine, 
Full  of  the  madness  of  motion,  joyful,  exultant, 

divine ! 

Leave  all  your  troubles  behind  you, 
Ride  where  they  never  can  find  you, 

Into  the  gladness  of  morn, 
With  the  long,  clear  note  of  the  hunting-horn, 
Swiftly  o'er  hillock  and  hollow, 

Sweeping  along  with  the  wind,  — 
Follow,  you  hunters,  follow, 
Follow  and  find! 


What  will  you  reach  with  your  riding?    What 

is  the  charm  of  the  chase? 
Just  the  delight  and  the  striding  swing  of  the 

jubilant  pace. 

Danger  is  sweet  when  you  front  her,  — 
In  at  the  death,  every  hunter! 
Now  on  the  breeze  the  mort  is  borne 
In  the  long,  clear  note  of  the  hunting-horn, 
Winding  merrily,  over  and  over,  — 

Come,  come,  come! 

Home  again, Ranger !  home  again, Rover. 
Turn  again,  home! 


VII 

DANCE-MUSIC 

Now  let  the  sleep-tune  blend  with  the  play-tune, 
Weaving  the  mystical  spell  of  the  dance ; 
Lighten  the  deep  tune,  soften  the  gay  tune, 
Mingle  a  tempo  that  turns  in  a  trance. 
Half  of  it  sighing,  half  of  it  smiling, 
Smoothly  it  swings,  with  a  triplicate  beat; 
Calling,  replying,  yearning,  beguiling, 
Wooing  the  heart  and  bewitching  the  feet. 

Every  drop  of  blood 

Rises  with  the  flood, 
Rocking  on  the  waves  of  the  strain ; 

Youth  and  beauty  glide 

Turning  with  the  tide  — 
Music  making  one  out  of  twain, 
Bearing  them  away,  and  away,  and  away, 

Like  a  tone  and  its  terce  — 
Till  the  chord  dissolves,  and  the  dancers  stay, 
And  reverse. 


Violins  leading,  take  up  the  measure, 
Turn  with  the  tune  again,  —  clarinets  clear 
Answer  their  pleading,  —  harps  full  of  pleasure 
Sprinkle  their  silver  like  light  on  the  mere. 
Semiquaver  notes, 
Merry  little  motes, 
Tangled  in  the  haze 
Of  the  lamp's  golden  rays, 
Quiver  everywhere 
In  the  air, 
Like  a  spray,  — 

Till  the  fuller  stream  of  the  might  of  the  tune, 
Gliding  like  a  dream  in  the  light  of  the  moon, 
Bears  them  all  away,  and  away,  and  away, 
Floating  in  the  trance  of  the  dance. 


Then  begins  a  measure  stately, 

Languid,  slow,  serene ; 
All  the  dancers  move  sedately, 
Stepping  leisurely  and  straitly, 

With  a  courtly  mien; 
Crossing  hands  and  changing  places, 

Bowing  low  between, 
While  the  minuet  inlaces 
Waving  arms  and  woven  paces,  — 

Glittering  damaskeen. 
Where  is  she  whose  form  is  folden 

In  its  royal  sheen? 
From  our  longing  eyes  withholden 
By  her  mystic  girdle  golden, 

Beauty  sought  but  never  seen, 
Music  walks  the  maze,  a  queen. 


«5 


VIII 
THE  SYMPHONY 

Music,  they  do  thee  wrong  who  say  thine  art 

Is  only  to  enchant  the  sense. 
For  every  timid  motion  of  the  heart, 

And  every  passion  too  intense 
To  bear  the  chain  of  the  imperfect  word, 

And  every  tremulous  longing,  stirred 
By  spirit  winds  that  come  we  know  not  whence 
And  go  we  know  not  where, 
And  every  inarticulate  prayer 
Beating  about  the  depths  of  pain  or  bliss, 

Like  some  bewildered  bird 
That  seeks  its  nest  but  knows  not  where  it  is, 
And  every  dream  that  haunts,  with  dim  delight, 
The  drowsy  hour  between  the  day  and  night, 
The  wakeful  hour  between  the  night  and  day, — 
Imprisoned,  waits  for  thee, 
Impatient,  yearns  for  thee, 
The  queen  who  comes  to  set  the  captive  free ! 
Thou  lendest  wings  to  grief  to  fly  away, 
And  wings  to  joy  to  reach  a  heavenly  height ; 
And  every  dumb  desire  that  storms  within  the 

breast 
Thou  leadest  forth  to  sob  or  sing  itself  to  rest. 


All  these  are  thine,  and  therefore  love  is  thine. 

For  love  is  joy  and  grief, 
And  trembling  doubt,  and  certain-sure  belief, 
And  fear,  and  hope,  and  longing  unexpressed, 
In  pain  most  human,  and  in  rapture  brief 

Almost  divine. 

Love  would  possess,  yet  deepens  when  denied; 
And  love  would  give,  yet  hungers  to  receive ; 
Love  like  a  prince  his  triumph  would  achieve ; 
And  like  a  miser  in  the  dark  his  joys  would  hide. 

Love  is  most  bold : 

He  leads  his  dreams  like  armed  men  in  line; 
Yet  when  the  siege  is  set,  and  he  must  speak, 

Calling  the  fortress  to  resign 
Its  treasure,  valiant  love  grows  weak, 
And  hardly  dares  his  purpose  to  unfold. 
Less  with  his  faltering  lips  than  with  his  eyes 

He  claims  the  longed-for  prize : 
Love  fain  would  tell  it  all,  yet  leaves  the  best 
untold. 


But  thou  shalt  speak  for  love.     Yea,  thou  shalt 

teach 
The  mystery  of  measured  tone, 

The  Pentecostal  speech 
That  every  listener  heareth  as  his  own. 
For  on  thy  head  the  cloven  tongues  of  fire,  — 
Diminished  chords  that  quiver  with  desire, 
And    major    chords    that    glow    with    perfect 

peace,  — 

Have  fallen  from  above ; 
And  thou  canst  give  release 
In  music  to  the  burdened  heart  of  love. 


Sound  with  the  'cellos'  pleading,  passionate 

strain 

The  yearning  theme,  and  let  the  flute  reply 
In  placid  melody,  while  violins  complain, 
And  sob,  and  sigh, 
With  muted  string ; 
Then  let  the  oboe  half-reluctant  sing 
Of  bliss  that  trembles  on  the  verge  of  pain, 

While  'cellos  plead  and  plead  again, 
With    throbbing    notes    delayed,    that    would 

impart 
To  every  urgent  tone  the  beating  of  the  heart. 

So  runs  the  andante,  making  plain 
The  hopes  and  fears  of  love  without  a  word. 


Then  comes  the  adagio,  with  a  yielding  theme 
Through  which  the  violas  flow  soft  as  in  a  dream, 
While  horns  and  mild  bassoons  are  heard 
In  tender  tune,  that  seems  to  float 

Like  an  enchanted  boat 

Upon  the  downward-gliding  stream, 

Toward  the  allegro's  wide,  bright  sea 

Of  dancing,  glittering,  blending  tone, 

Where  every  instrument  is  sounding  free, 

And  harps  like   wedding-chimes  are   rung,   and 

trumpets  blown 
Around  the  barque  of  love 
That  sweeps,  with  smiling  skies  above, 
A  royal  galley,  many-oared, 
Into  the  happy -harbour  of  the  perfect  chord. 


•o 


IX 

IRIS 

Light  to  the  eye  and  Music  to  the  ear,  — 
These   are  the  builders  of  the  bridge  that 

springs 
From  earth's  dim  shore  of  half-remembered 

things 
To   reach   the   spirit's    home,   the   heavenly 

sphere 
Where  nothing  silent  is  and  nothing  dark. 

So  when  I  see  the  rainbow's  arc 
Spanning  the  showery  sky,  far-off  I  hear 

Music,  and  every  colour  sings : 
And  while  the  symphony  builds  up  its  round 
Full  sweep  of  architectural  harmony 
Above  the  tide  of  Time,  far,  far  away  I  see 
A  bow  of  colour  in  the  bow  of  sound. 


*f 


Red  as  the  dawn  the  trumpet  rings, 
Imperial  purple  from  the  trombone  flows, 
The  mellow  horn  melts  into  evening  rose. 
Blue  as  the  sky,  the  choir  of  strings 
Darkens  in  double-bass  to  ocean's  hue, 
Rises  in  violins  to  noon-tide's  blue, 
With  threads  of  quivering  light  shot  through  and 

through. 

Green  as  the  mantle  that  the  summer  flings 
Around  the  world,  the  pastoral  reeds  in  tune 
Embroider  melodies  of  May  and  June. 

Yellow  as  gold, 
Yea,  thrice-refined  gold, 
And  purer  than  the  treasures  of  the  mine, 

Floods  of  the  human  voice  divine 
Along  the  arch  in  choral  song  are  rolled. 
So  bends  the  bow  complete : 
And  radiant  rapture  flows 
Across  the  bridge,  so  full,  so  strong,  so  sweet, 
That  the  uplifted  spirit  hardly  knows 

Whether  the  Music-Light  that  glows 
Within  the  arch  of  tones  and  colours  seven 
Is  sunset-peace  of  earth,  or  sunrise-joy  of  Heaven. 


SEA  AND  SHORE 

Music,  I  yield  to  thee ; 

As  swimmer  to  the  sea 
I  give  my  spirit  to  the  flood  of  song : 

Bear  me  upon  thy  breast 

In  rapture  and  at  rest, 

Bathe    me    in   pure    delight   and    make    me 
strong ; 

From  strife  and  struggle  bring  release, 
And  draw  the  waves  of  passion  into  tides  of 
peace. 

Remember'd  songs,  most  dear, 

In  living  songs  I  hear, 

While    blending    voices    gently    swing    and 
sway 

In  melodies  of  love, 

Whose  mighty  currents  move, 
With  singing  near  and  singing  far  away; 

Sweet  in  the  glow  of  morning  light, 
And  sweeter  still  across  the  starlit  gulf  of 
night. 


Music,  in  thee  we  float, 

And  lose  the  lonely  note 
Of  self  in  thy  celestial-ordered  strain, 

Until  at  last  we  find 

The  life  to  love  resigned 
In  harmony  of  joy  restored  again ; 

And  songs  that  cheered  our  mortal  days 
Break  on  the  coast  of  light  in  endless  hymns 
of  praise. 

December,  1901  —  May,  1903. 


PEACE 


IN    EXCELSIS 

'T'WO  dwellings,  Peace,  are  thine. 

One  is  the  mountain-height, 
Uplifted  in  the  loneliness  of  light 

Beyond  the  realm  of  shadows,  —  fine, 
And  far,  and  clear,  —  where  advent  of  the  night 
Means  only  glorious  nearness  of  the  stars, 
And  dawn,  unhindered,  breaks  above  the  bars 
That  long  the  lower  world  in  twilight  keep. 
Thou  sleepest  not,  and  hast  no  need  of  sleep, 
For  all  thy  cares  and  fears  have  dropped  away ; 
The  night's  fatigue,  the  fever-fret  of  day, 
Are  far  below  thee ;  and  earth's  weary  wars, 

In  vain  expense  of  passion,  pass 
Before  thy  sight  like  visions  in  a  glass, 
Or  like  the  wrinkles  of  the  storm  that  creep 

Across  the  sea  and  leave  no  trace 
Of  trouble  on  that  immemorial  face,  — 
So  brief  appear  the  conflicts,  and  so  slight 
The  wounds  men  give,  the  things  for  which  they 
fight. 


Here  hangs  a  fortress  on  the  distant  steep,  — 

A  lichen  clinging  to  the  rock : 
There  sails  a  fleet  upon  the  deep,  — 

A  wandering  flock 
Of  snow-winged  gulls :  and  yonder,  in  the  plain, 

A  marble  palace  shines,  —  a  grain 

Of  mica  glittering  in  the  rain. 

Beneath  thy  feet  the  clouds  are  rolled 

By  voiceless  winds :  and  far  between 
The  rolling  clouds  new  shores  and  peaks  are  seen, 

In  shimmering  robes  of  green  and  gold, 

And  faint  aerial  hue 
That  silent  fades  into  the  silent  blue. 
Thou,  from  thy  mountain-hold, 
All  day,  in  tranquil  wisdom,  looking  down 
On  distant  scenes  of  human  toil  and  strife, 
All  night,  with  eyes  aware  of  loftier  life, 
Uplooking  to  the  sky,  where  stars  are  sown, 
Dost  watch  the  everlasting  fields  grow  white 
Unto  the  harvest  of  the  sons  of  light, 
And  welcome  to  thy  dwelling-place  sublime 
The  few  strong  souls  that  dare  to  climb 
The  slippery  crags  and  find  thee  on  the  height. 


II 

DE  PROFUNDIS 

But  in  the  depth  thou  hast  another  home, 
For  hearts  less  daring,  or  more  frail. 
Thou  dwellest  also  in  the  shadowy  vale ; 

And  pilgrim-souls  that  roam 
With  weary  feet  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
Bearing  the  burden  and  the  heat 

Of  toilful  days, 
Turn  from  the  dusty  ways 
To  find  thee  in  thy  green  and  still  retreat. 

Here  is  no  vision  wide  outspread 
Before  the  lonely  and  exalted  seat 
Of  all-embracing  knowledge.    Here,  instead, 
A  little  garden,  and  a  sheltered  nook, 

With  outlooks  brief  and  sweet 
Across  the  meadows,  and  along  the  brook,  — 

A  little  stream  that  little  knows 
Of  the  great  sea  towards  which  it  gladly  flows, 
A  little  field  that  bears  a  little  wheat 
To  make  a  portion  of  earth's  daily  bread. 
The  vast  cloud-armies  overhead 
Are  marshalled,  and  the  wild  wind  blows 
Its  trumpet,  but  thou  canst  not  tell 
Whence  the  storm  comes  nor  where  it  goes. 


27 


Nor  dost  them  greatly  care,  since  all  is  well; 

Thy  daily  task  is  done, 

And  though  a  lowly  one, 

Thou  gavest  it  of  thy  best, 

And  art  content  to  rest 
In  patience  till  its  slow  reward  is  won. 
Not  far  thou  lookest,  but  thy  sight  is  clear ; 
Not  much  thou  knowest,  but  thy  faith  is  dear ; 
For  life  is  love,  and  love  is  always  near. 
Here  friendship  lights  the  fire,  and  every  heart, 
Sure  of  itself  and  sure  of  all  the  rest, 
Dares  to  be  true,  and  gladly  takes  its  part 
In  open  converse,  bringing  forth  its  best : 
Here  is  sweet  music,  melting  every  chain 

Of  lassitude  and  pain : 
And  here,  at  last,  is  sleep,  the  gift  of  gifts, 

The  tender  nurse,  who  lifts 
The  soul  grown  weary  of  the  waking  world, 

And  lays  it,  with  its  thoughts  all  furled, 
Its  fears  forgotten,  and  its  passions  still, 
On  the  deep  bosom  of  the  Eternal  Will. 

August,  igoi. 


VICTOR  HUGO 

1802-1902 

LJEART  of  France  for  a  hundred  years, 

Passionate,  sensitive,  proud,  and  strong, 
Quick  to  throb  with  her  hopes  and  fears, 
Fierce  to  flame  with  her  sense  of  wrong ! 
You,  who  hailed  with  a  morning  song 
Dream-light  gilding  a  throne  of  old : 
You,  who  turned  when  the  dream  grew  cold, 
Singing  still,  to  the  light  that  shone 
Pure  from  Liberty's  ancient  throne, 

Over  the  human  throng ! 
You,  who  dared  in  the  dark  eclipse,  — 
When  the  pygmy  heir  of  a  giant  name 
Dimmed  the  face  of  the  land  with  shame,  — 
Speak  the  truth  with  indignant  lips, 
Call  him  little  whom  men  called  great, 
Scoff  at  him,  scorn  him,  deny  him, 
Point  to  the  blood  on  his  robe  of  state, 
Fling  back  his  bribes  and  defy  him! 


You,  who  fronted  the  waves  of  fate 

As  you  faced  the  sea  from  your  island  home, 
Exiled,  yet  with  a  soul  elate, 

Sending  songs  o'er  the  rolling  foam, 
Bidding  the  heart  of  man  to  wait 
For  the  day  when  all  should  see 

Floods  of  wrath  from  the  frowning  skies 

Fall  on  an  Empire  founded  in  lies, 

And  France  again  be  free ! 
You,  who  came  in  the  Terrible  Year 

Swiftly  back  to  your  broken  land, 
Now  to  your  heart  a  thousand  times  more  dear,  — 

Prayed  for  her,  sung  to  her,  fought  for  her, 

Patiently,  fervently  wrought  for  her, 
Till  once  again, 

After  the  storm  of  fear  and  pain, 
High  in  the  heavens  the  star  of  France  stood  clear ! 


30 


You,  who  knew  that  a  man  must  take 
Good  and  ill  with  a  steadfast  soul, 
Holding  fast,  while  the  billows  roll 

Over  his  head,  to  the  things  that  make 
Life  worth  living  for  great  and  small,  — 
Honour  and  pity  and  truth, 
The  heart  and  the  hope  of  youth, 
And  the  good  God  over  all ! 

You,  to  whom  work  was  rest, 
Dauntless  Toiler  of  the  Sea, 

Following  ever  the  joyful  quest 
Of  beauty  on  the  shores  of  old  Romance, 
Bard  of  the  poor  of  France, 
And  warrior-priest  of  world-wide  charity! 


You  who  loved  little  children  best 
Of  all  the  poets  that  ever  sung, 
Great  heart,  golden  heart, 
Old,  and  yet  ever  young, 

Minstrel  of  liberty, 
Lover  of  all  free,  winged  things, 

Now  at  last  you  are  free,  — 
Your  soul  has  its  wings ! 
Heart  of  France  for  a  hundred  years, 

Floating  far  in  the  light  that  never  fails  you, 
Over  the  turmoil  of  mortal  hopes  and  fears 

Victor,  forever  victor,  the  whole  world  hails  you ! 

March,  1902. 


3> 


GOD  OF  THE  OPEN  AIR 


'"THOU  who  hast  made  thy  dwelling  fair 

With  flowers  beneath,  above  with  starry 

lights, 
And  set  thine  altars  everywhere,  — 

On  mountain  heights, 
In  woodlands  dim  with  many  a  dream, 

In  valleys  bright  with  springs, 
And  on  the  curving  capes  of  every  stream : 
Thou  who  hast  taken  to  thyself  the  wings 

Of  morning,  to  abide 
Upon  the  secret  places  of  the  sea, 

And  on  far  islands,  where  the  tide 
Visits  the  beauty  of  untrodden  shores, 
Waiting  for  worshippers  to  come  to  thee 

In  thy  great  out-of-doors ! 
To  thee  I  turn,  to  thee  T  make  my  prayer, 
God  of  the  open  air. 


33 


II 

Seeking  for  thee,  the  heart  of  man 

Lonely  and  longing  ran, 
In  that  first,  solitary  hour, 

When  the  mysterious  power 
To  know  and  love  the  wonder  of  the  morn 
Was  breathed  within  him,  an'd  his  soul  was  born ; 

And  thou  didst  meet  thy  child, 

Not  in  some  hidden  shrine, 
But  in  the  freedom  of  the  garden  wild, 

And  take  his  hand  in  thine,  — 
There  all  day  long  in  Paradise  he  walked, 
And  in  the  cool  of  evening  with  thee  talked. 


34 


Ill 

Lost,  long  ago,  that  garden  bright  and  pure, 
Lost,  that  calm  day  too  perfect  to  endure, 
And  lost  the  childlike  love  that  worshipped  and 

was  sure! 

For  men  have  dulled  their  eyes  with  sin, 
And  dimmed  the  light  of  heaven  with  doubt, 
And  built  their  temple  walls  to  shut  thee  in, 
And  framed  their  iron  creeds  to  shut  thee  out. 
But  not  for  thee  the  closing  of  the  door, 
O  Spirit  unconfmed! 
Thy  ways  are  free 
As  is  the  wandering  wind, 
And  thou  hast  wooed  thy  children,  to  restore 

Their  fellowship  with  thee, 
In  peace  of  soul  and  simpleness  of  mind. 


IV 

Joyful  the  heart  that,  when  the  flood  rolled  by, 
Leaped  up  to  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky ; 
And  glad  the  pilgrim,  in  the  lonely  night, 
For  whom  the  hills  of  Haran,  tier  on  tier, 
Built  up  a  secret  stairway  to  the  height 
Where  stars  like  angel  eyes  were  shining  clear. 
From  mountain-peaks,  in  many  a  land  and  age, 

Disciples  of  the  Persian  seer 
Have  hailed  the  rising  sun  and  worshipped  thee ; 
And  wayworn  followers  of  the  Indian  sage 
Have  found  the  peace  of  God  beneath  a  spreading 
tree. 

But  One,  but  One,  —  ah,  child  most  dear, 
And  perfect  image  of  the  Love  Unseen,  — 

Walked  every  day  in  pastures  green, 
And  all  his  life  the  quiet  waters  by, 
Reading  their  beauty  with  a  tranquil  eye. 


To  him  the  desert  was  a  place  prepared 

For  weary  hearts  to  rest ; 
The  hillside  was  a  temple  blest ; 
The  grassy  vale  a  banquet-room 
Where  he  could  feed  and  comfort  many  a  guest. 

With  him  the  lily  shared 
The  vital  joy  that  breathes  itself  in  bloom ; 
And  every  bird  that  sang  beside  the  nest 
Told  of  the  love  that  broods  o'er  every  living 

thing. 

He  watched  the  shepherd  bring 
His  flock  at  sundown  to  the  welcome  fold, 

The  fisherman  at  daybreak  fling 
His  net  across  the  waters  gray  and  cold, 
And  all  day  long  the  patient  reaper  swing 
His  curving  sickle  through  the  harvest-gold. 
So  through  the  world  the  foot-path  way  he  trod, 
Drawing  the  air  of  heaven  in  every  breath ; 
And  in  the  evening  sacrifice  of  death 
Beneath  the  open  sky  he  gave  his  soul  to  God. 
Him  will  I  trust,  and  for  my  Master  take ; 
Him  will  I  follow ;  and  for  his  dear  sake, 
God  of  the  open  air, 
To  thee  I  make  my  prayer. 


47459 


From  the  prison  of  anxious  thought  that  greed 

has  builded, 
From  the  fetters  that  envy  has  wrought  and  pride 

has  gilded, 
From  the  noise  of  the  crowded  ways  and  the  fierce 

confusion, 
From  the  folly  that  wastes  .its  days  in  a  world  of 

illusion, 
(Ah,  but  the  life  is  lost  that  frets  and  languishes 

there!) 
I  would  escape  and  be  free  in  the  joy  of  the  open 

air. 


By  the  breadth  of  the  blue  that  shines  in  silence 

o'er  me, 
By  the  length  of  the  mountain-lines  that  stretch 

before  me, 
By  the  height  of  the  cloud  that  sails,  with  rest  in 

motion, 
Over  the  plains  and  the  vales  to  the  measureless 

ocean, 
(Oh,  how  the  sight  of  the  things  that  are  great 

enlarges  the  eyes!) 
Lead  me  out  of  the  narrow  life,  to  the  peace  of  the 

hills  and  the  skies. 


While  the  tremulous  leafy  haze  on  the  woodland 

is  spreading, 
And  the  bloom  on  the  meadow  betrays  where 

May  has  been  treading ; 
While  the  birds  on  the  branches  above,  and  the 

brooks  flowing  under, 
Are  singing  together  of  love  in  a  world  full  of 

wonder, 
(Lo,  in  the  marvel  of  Springtime,  dreams  are 

changed  into  truth !) 
Quicken  my  heart,  and  restore  the  beautiful  hopes 

of  youth. 


40 


By  the  faith  that  the  flowers  show  when  they 
bloom  unbidden, 

By  the  calm  of  the  river's  flow  to  a  goal  that  is 
hidden, 

By  the  trust  of  the  tree  that  clings  to  its  deep 
foundation, 

By  the  courage  of  wild  birds'  wings  on  the  long 
migration, 

(Wonderful  secret  of  peace  that  abides  in  Na 
ture's  breast !) 

Teach  me  how  to  confide,  and  live  my  life,  and 
rest. 


For  the  comforting  warmth  of  the  sun  that  my 
body  embraces, 

For  the  cool  of  the  waters  that  run  through  the 
shadowy  places, 

For  the  balm  of  the  breezes  that  brush  my  face 
with  their  fingers, 

For  the  vesper-hymn  of  the  thrush  when  the  twi 
light  lingers, 

For  the  long  breath,  the  deep  breath,  the  breath 
of  a  heart  without  care,  — 

I  will  give  thanks  and  adore  thee,  God  of  the  open 
air! 


42 


VI 

These  are  the  gifts  I  ask 

Of  thee,  Spirit  serene : 

Strength  for  the  daily  task, 

Courage  to  face  the  road, 

Good  cheer  to  help  me  bear  the  traveller's  loads 
And,  for  the  hours  of  rest  that  come  between, 
An  inward  joy  in  all  things  heard  and  seen. 

These  are  the  sins  I  fain 

Would  have  thee  take  away: 

Malice,  and  cold  disdain, 

Hot  anger,  sullen  hate, 
Scorn  of  the  lowly,  envy  of  the  great, 
And  discontent  that  casts  a  shadow  gray 
On  all  the  brightness  of  the  common  day. 


43 


These  are  the  things  I  prize 
And  hold  of  dearest  worth : 
Light  of  the  sapphire  skies, 
Peace  of  the  silent  hills, 
Shelter  of  forests,  comfort  of  the  grass, 
Music  of  birds,  murmur  of  little  rills, 
'  Shadow  of  douds  that  swiftly  pass, 
And,  after  showers, 
The  smell  of  flowers 
And  of  the  good  brown  earth,  — 
And  best  of  all,  along  the  way,  friendship  and 
mirth. 


So  let  me  keep 

These  treasures  of  the  humble  heart 
In  true  possession,  owning  them  by  love ; 
And  when  at  last  I  can  no  longer  move 

Among  them  freely,  but  must  part. 
From  the  green  fields  and  from  the  waters  clear, 

Let  me  not  creep 

Into  some  darkened  room  and  hide 
From  all  that  makes  the  world  so  bright  and 

dear; 

But  throw  the  windows  wide 
To  welcome  in  the  light ; 
And  while  I  clasp  a  well-beloved  hand, 
Let  me  once  more  have  sight 
Of  the  deep  sky  and  the  far-smiling  land,  — 

Then  gently  fall  on  sleep, 
And  breathe  my  body  back  to  Nature's  care, 
My  spirit  out  to  thee,  God  of  the  open  air. 


45 


SONNETS 


47 


WORK 

JET  me  but  do  my  work  from  day  to  day, 
In  field  or  forest,  at  the  desk  or  loom, 
In  roaring  market-place  or  tranquil  room ; 
Let  me  but  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say, 
When  vagrant  wishes  beckon  me  astray, 

"  This  is  my  work ;  my  blessing,  not  my  doom ; 
"  Of  all  who  live,  I  am  the  one  by  whom 
"  This  work  can  best  be  done  in  the  right  way." 

Then  shall  I  see  it  not  too  great,  nor  small, 
To  suit  my  spirit  and  to  prove  my  powers ; 
Then  shall  I  cheerful  greet  the  labouring  hours, 
And  cheerful  turn,  when  the  long  shadows  fall 
At  eventide,  to  play  and  love  and  rest, 
Because  I  know  for  me  my  work  is  best. 

April,  1902. 


LIFE 

T   ET  me  but  live  my  life  from  year  to  year, 
With  forward  face  and  unreluctant  soul ; 
Not  hurrying  to,  nor  turning  from,  the  goal ; 
Not  mourning  for  the  things  that  disappear 
In  the  dim  past,  nor  holding  back  in  fear 

From  what  the  future  veils ;  but  with  a  whole 
And  happy  heart,  that  pays  its  toll 
To  Youth  and  Age,  and  travels  on  with  cheer. 

So  let  the  way  wind  up  the  hill  or  down, 
O'er  rough  or  smooth,  the  journey  will  be  joy : 
Still  seeking  what  I  sought  when  but  a  boy, 
New  friendship,  high  adventure,  and  a  crown, 
My  heart  will  keep  the  courage  of  the  quest, 
And  hope  the  road's  last  turn  will  be  the  best. 

May,  igoa. 


5° 


LOVE 

JET  me  but  love  my  love  without  disguise, 
Nor  wear  a  mask  of  fashion  old  or  new, 
Nor  wait  to  speak  till  I  can  hear  a  clue, 
Nor  play  a  part  to  shine  in  others'  eyes, 
Nor  bow  my  knees  to  what  my  heart  denies ; 
But  what  I  am,  to  that  let  me  be  true, 
And  let  me  worship  where  my  love  is  due, 
And  so  through  love  and  worship  let  me  rise. 

For  love  is  but  the  heart's  immortal  thirst 
To  be  completely  known  and  all  forgiven, 
Even  as  sinful  souls  that  enter  Heaven : 
So  take  me,  dear,  and  understand  my  worst, 
And  freely  pardon  it,  because  confessed, 
And  let  me  find  in  loving  thee,  my  best. 

May,  igoa. 


THE  CHILD  IN  THE  GARDEN 

"VY7HEN  to  the  garden  of  untroubled  thought 
I  came  of  late,  and  saw  the  open  door, 
And  wished  again  to  enter,  and  explore 
The  sweet,  wild  ways  with  stainless  bloom  in 
wrought, 

And  bowers  of  innocence  with  beauty  fraught, 
It  seemed  some  purer  voice  must  speak  before 
I  dared  to  tread  that  garden  loved  of  yore, 
That  Eden  lost  unknown  and  found  unsought. 

Then  just  within  the  gate  I  saw  a  child,  — 
A  stranger-child,  yet  to  my  heart  most  dear  ; 

He  held  his  hands  to  me,  and  softly  smiled 
With  eyes  that  knew  no  shade  of  sin  or  fear : 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  "  and  play  awhile  with  me ; 

"  I  am  the  little  child  you  used  to  be." 

January,  1903. 


LOVE'S  REASON 

pOR  that  thy  face  is  fair  I  love  thee  not; 

Nor  yet  because  the  light  of  thy  brown  eyes 

Hath  gleams  of  wonder  and  of  glad  surprise, 

Like  woodland  streams  that  cross  a  sunlit  spot: 

Nor  for  thy  beauty,  born  without  a  blot, 

Most    perfect   when    it    shines    through    no 

disguise 

Pure  as  the  star  of  Eve  in  Paradise,  — 
For  all  these  outward  things  I  love  thee  not : 

But  for  a  something  in  thy  form  and  face, 
Thy  looks  and  ways,  of  primal  harmony ; 

A  certain  soothing  charm,  a  vital  grace 
That  breathes  of  the  eternal  womanly, 

And  makes  me  feel  the  warmth  of  Nature's  breast, 

When  in  her  arms,  and  thine,  I  sink  to  rest. 

February,  1904. 


53 


PORTRAIT  AND  REALITY 

T  F  on  the  closed  curtain  of  my  sight 

My  fancy  paints  thy  portrait  far  away, 
I  see  thee  still  the  same,  by  night  or  day ; 
Crossing  the  crowded  street,  or  moving  bright 
'Mid  festal  throngs,  or  reading  by  the  light 
Of  shaded  lamp  some  friendly  poet's  lay, 
Or  shepherding  the  children  at  their  play,  — 
The  same  sweet  self,  and  my  unchanged  delight. 

But  when  I  see  thee  near,  I  recognize 
In  every  dear  familiar  way  some  strange 

Perfection,  and  behold  in  April  guise 
The  magic  of  thy  beauty  that  doth  range 

Through  many  moods  with  infinite  surprise,  — 
Never  the  same,  and  sweeter  with  each  change. 

May,  1904. 


54 


THE  WIND  OF  SORROW 

HP  HE  fire  of  love  was  burning,  yet  so  low 

That  in  the  dark  we  scarce  could  see  its  rays, 
And  in  the  light  of  perfect-placid  days 
Nothing  but  smouldering  embers  dull  and  slow. 
Vainly,  for  love's  delight,  we  sought  to  throw 
New  pleasures  on  the  pyre  to  make  it  blaze : 
In   life's   calm   air   and   tranquil-prosperous 

ways 
We  missed  the  radiant  heat  of  long  ago. 

Then  in  the  night,  a  night  of  sad  alarms, 

Bitter  with  pain  and  black  with  fog  of  fears, 

That  drove  us  trembling  to  each  other's  arms  — 
Across  the  gulf  of  darkness  and  salt  tears, 

Into  life's  calm  the  wind  of  sorrow  came, 

And  fanned  the  fire  of  love  to  clearest  flame. 

March,  1903. 


55 


PATRIA 

T  WOULD  not  even  ask  my  heart  to  say 
If  I  could  love  some  other  land  as  well 
As  thee,  my  country,  had  I  felt  the  spell 
Of  Italy  at  birth,  or  learned  to  obey 
The  charm  of  France,  or  England's  mighty  sway. 
I  would  not  be  so  much  an  infidel 
As  once  to  dream,  or  fashion  words  to  tell, 
What  land  could  hold  my  love  from  thee  away. 

For  like  a  law  of  nature  in  my  blood 
I  feel  thy  sweet  and  secret  sovereignty, 

And  woven  through  my  soul  thy  vital  sign. 
My  life  is  but  a  wave,  and  thou  the  flood ; 
I  am  a  leaf  and  thou  the  mother-tree ; 
Nor  should  I  be  at  all,  were  I  not  thine. 

June,  1904. 


LEGENDS 


57 


A  LEGEND  OF  SERVICE 

TT  pleased  the  Lord  of  Angels  (praise  His  name !) 
To  hear,  one  day,  report  from  those  who  came 
With  pitying  sorrow,  or  exultant  joy, 
To  tell  of  earthly  tasks  in  His  employ : 
For  some  were  sorry  when  they  saw  how  slow 
The  stream  of  heavenly  love  on  earth  must  flow ; 
And  some  were  glad  because  their  eyes  had  seen, 
Along  its  banks,  fresh  flowers  and  living  green. 
So,  at  a  certain  hour,  before  the  throne 
The  youngest  angel,  Asmiel,  stood  alone ; 
Nor  glad,  nor  sad,  but  full  of  earnest  thought, 
And  thus  his  tidings  to  the  Master  brought : 
"  Lord,  in  the  city  Lupon  I  have  found 
"  Three  servants  of  thy  holy  name,  renowned 
"  Above  their  fellows.    One  is  very  wise, 
"  With  thoughts  that  ever  range  above  the  skies ; 
"  And  one  is  gifted  with  the  golden  speech 
"That  makes  men   glad  to  hear  when  he  will 

teach ; 

"  And  one,  with  no  rare  gift  or  grace  endued, 
"  Has  won  the  people's  love  by  doing  good. 
"  With  three  such  saints  Lupon  is  trebly  blest ; 
"  But,  Lord,  I  fain  would  know,  which  loves  Thee 
best?  " 


Then  spake  the  Lord  ot  Angels,  to  whose  look 

The  hearts  of  all  are  like  an  open  book : 

"  In  every  soul  the  secret  thought  I  read, 

"  And  well  I  know  who  loves  me  best  indeed. 

"  But  every  life  has  pages  vacant  still, 

"  Whereon  a  man  may  write  the  thing  he  will ; 

"  Therefore  I  read  in  silence,  day  by  day, 

"  And  wait  for  hearts  untaught  to  learn  my  way. 

"  But  thou  shalt  go  to  Lupon,  to  the  three 

"  Who  serve  me  there,  and  take  this  word  from 

me: 

"  Tell  each  of  them  his  Master  bids  him  go 
"  Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow ; 
"  There  he  shall  find  a  certain  task  for  me : 
"  But  what,  I  do  not  tell  to  them  nor  thee. 
"  Give  thou  the  message,  make  my  word  the  test, 
"  And  crown  for  me  the  one  who  answers  best." 
Silent  the  angel  stood,  with  folded  hands, 
To  take  the  imprint  of  his  Lord's  commands ; 
Then  drew  one  breath,  obedient  and  elate, 
And  passed,  the  self-same  hour,  through  Lupon's 

gate. 


60 


First  to  the  Temple  door  he  made  his  way ; 
And  there,  because  it  was  an  holy-day, 
He  saw  the  folk  by  thousands  thronging,  stirred 
By  ardent  thirst  to  hear  the  preacher's  word. 
Then,  while  the  echoes  murmured  Bernol's  name, 
Through  aisles  that  hushed  behind  him,  Bernol 

came; 

Strung  to  the  keenest  pitch  of  conscious  might, 
With  lips  prepared  and  firm,  and  eyes  alight. 
One  moment  at  the  pulpit  steps  he  knelt 
In  silent  prayer,  and  on  his  shoulder  felt 
The  angel's  hand :  —  "  The  Master  bids  thee  go 
"  Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow, 
"To  serve  Him  there."     Then  Bernol's  hidden 

face 

Went  white  as  death,  and  for  about  the  space 
Of  ten  slow  heart-beats  there  was  no  reply ; 
Till  Bernol  looked  around  and  whispered, "  Why?  " 
But  answer  to  his  question  came  there  none ; 
The  angel  sighed,  and  with  a  sigh  was  gone. 


Within  the  humble  house  where  Malvin  spent 

His  studious  years,  on  holy  things  intent, 

Sweet  stillness  reigned  ;  and  there  the  angel  found 

The  saintly  sage  immersed  in  thought  profound, 

Weaving  with  patient  toil  and  willing  care 

A  web  of  wisdom,  wonderful  and  fair  : 

A  seamless  robe  for  Truth's  great  bridal  meet, 

And  needing  but  one  thread  to  be  complete. 

Then  Asmiel  touched  his  hand,  and  broke  the 

thread 

Of  fine-spun  thought,  and  very  gently  said, 
"  The  One  of  whom  thou  thinkest  bids  thee  go 
"  Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow, 
"To  serve  Him  there."   With  sorrow  and  surprise 
Malvin  looked  up,  reluctance  in  his  eyes. 
The  broken  thought,  the  strangeness  of  the  call, 
The  perilous  passage  of  the  mountain-wall, 
The  solitary  journey,  and  the  length 
Of  ways  unknown,  too  great  for  his  frail  strength, 
Appalled  him.    With  a  doubtful  brow 
He    scanned   the    doubtful    task,    and    muttered 


But  Asmiel  answered,  as  he  turned  to  go, 
With  cold,  disheartened  voice,  "  I  do  not  know. 


Now  as  he  went,  with  fading  hope,  to  seek 

The  third  and  last  to  whom  God  bade  him  speak, 

Scarce  twenty  steps  away  whom  should  he  meet 

But  Fermor,  hurrying  cheerful  down  the  street, 

With  ready  heart  that  faced  his  work  like  play, 

And  joyed  to  find  it  greater  every  day ! 

The  angel  stopped  him  with  uplifted  hand, 

And  gave  without  delay  his  Lord's  command : 

"  He  whom  thou  servest  here  would  have  thee  go 

"  Alone  to  Spiran's  huts,  across  the  snow, 

"  To  serve   Him  there."     Ere  Asmiel  breathed 

again 
The  eager  answer  leaped  to  meet  him,  "  When  ? ' ' 


The  angel's  face  with  inward  joy  grew  bright, 
And  all  his  figure  glowed  with  heavenly  light ; 
He  took  the  golden  circlet  from  his  brow 
And  gave  the  crown  to  Fermor,  answering, "  Now ! 
"  For  thou  hast  met  the  Master's  bidden  test, 
"  And  I  have  found  the  man  who  loves  Him  best. 
"  Not  thine,  nor  mine,  to  question  or  reply 
"When    He   commands    us,    asking    'how?'    or 

'why?' 
"  He  knows  the  cause ;    His  ways  are  wise  and 

just; 
"  Who  serves  the  King  must  serve  with  perfect 

trust." 

February,  1901. 


THE  VAIN  KING 

TN  robes  of  Tyrian  blue  the  King  was  drest, 

A  jewelled  collar  shone  upon  his  breast, 
A  giant  ruby  glittered  in  his  crown  — 
Lord  of  rich  lands  and  many  a  splendid  town. 
In  him  the  glories  of  an  ancient  line 
Of  sober  kings,  who  ruled  by  right  divine, 
Were  centred ;  and  to  him  with  loyal  awe 
The  people  looked  for  leadership  and  law. 
Ten  thousand  knights,  the  safeguard  of  the  land, 
Lay  like  a  single  sword  within  his  hand ; 
A  hundred  courts,  with  power  of  life  and  death, 
Proclaimed  decrees  of  justice  by  his  breath ; 
And  all  the  sacred  growths  that  men  had  known 
Of  order  and  of  rule  upheld  his  throne. 


Proud  was  the  King:  yet  not  with  such  a  heart 

As  fits  a  man  to  play  a  royal  part. 

Not  his  the  pride  that  honours  as  a  trust 

The  right  to  rule,  the  duty  to  be  just : 

Not  his  the  dignity  that  bends  to  bear 

The  monarch's  yoke,  the  master's  load  of  care, 

And  labours  like  the  peasant  at  his  gate, 

To  serve  the  people  and  protect  the  State. 

Another  pride  was  his,  and  other  joys : 

To  him  the  crown  and  sceptre  were  but  toys, 

With  which  he  played  at  glory's  idle  game, 

To  please  himself  and  win  the  wreaths  of  fame. 

The  throne  his  fathers  held  from  age  to  age, 

To  his  ambition,  seemed  a  fitting  stage 

Built  for  King  Martin  to  display  at  will, 

His  mighty  strength  and  universal  skill. 


66 


No  conscious  child,  that,  spoiled  with  praising, 

tries 

At  every  step  to  win  admiring  eyes,  — 
No  favourite  mountebank,  whose  acting  draws 
From  gaping  crowds  loud  thunder  of  applause, 
Was  vainer  than  the  King :  his  only  thirst 
Was  to  be  hailed,  in  every  race,  the  first. 
When  tournament  was  held,  in  knightly  guise 
The  King  would  ride  the  lists  and  win  the  prize ; 
When  music  charmed  the  court,  with  golden  lyre 
The  King  would  take  the  stage  and  lead  the  choir ; 
In  hunting,  his  the  lance  to  slay  the  boar ; 
In  hawking,  see  his  falcon  highest  soar ; 
In  painting,  he  would  wield  the  master's  brush ; 
In  high  debate, — "the  King  is  speaking!  Hush!" 
Thus,  with  a  restless  heart,  in  every  field 
He  sought  renown,  and  found  his  subjects  yield 
As  if  he  were  a  demi-god  revealed. 


67 


But  while  he  played  the  petty  games  of  life 
His  kingdom  fell  a  prey  to  inward  strife ; 
Corruption  through  the  court  unheeded  crept, 
And  on  the  seat  of  honour  justice  slept. 
The  strong  trod  down  the  weak ;  the  helpless  poor 
Groaned  under  burdens  grievous  to  endure. 
The  nation's  wealth  was  spent  in  vain  display, 
And  weakness  wore  the  nation's  heart  away. 

Yet  think  not  Earth  is  blind  to  human  woes  — 
Man  has  more  friends  and  helpers  than  he  knows ; 
And  when  a  patient  people  are  oppressed, 
The  land  that  bore  them  feels  it  in  her  breast. 
Spirits  of  field  and  flood,  of  heath  and  hill, 
Are  grieved  and  angry  at  the  spreading  ill ; 
The  trees  complain  together  in  the  night, 
Voices  of  wrath  are  heard  along  the  height, 
And  secret  vows  are  sworn,  by  stream  and  strand, 
To  bring  the  tyrant  low  and  liberate  the  land. 


68 


But  little  recked  the  pampered  King  of  these ; 
He  heard  no  voice  but  such  as  praise  and  please. 
Flattered  and  fooled,  victor  in  every  sport, 
One  day  he  wandered  idly  with  his  court 
Beside  the  river,  seeking  to  devise 
New  ways  to  show  his  skill  to  wondering  eyes. 
There  in  the  stream  a  patient  fisher  stood, 
And  cast  his  line  across  the  rippling  flood. 
His  silver  spoil  lay  near  him  on  the  green : 
"Such  fish,"  the  courtiers  cried,  "were  never  seen! 
"  Three  salmon  longer  than  a  cloth-yard  shaft  — 
"  This  man  must  be  the  master  of  his  craft !  " 
"  An  easy  art !  "  the  jealous  King  replied : 
"  Myself  could  learn  it  better,  if  I  tried, 
"  And  catch  a  hundred  larger  fish  a  week  — 
"Wilt  thou  accept  the  challenge,  fellow?  Speak!" 
The  fisher  turned,  came  near,  and  bent  his  knee : 
"  'T  is  not  for  kings  to  strive  with  such  as  me ; 
"  Yet  if  the  King  commands  it,  I  obey. 
"  But  one  condition  of  the  strife  I  pray : 
"  The  fisherman  who  brings  the  least  to  land 
"  Shall  do  whate'er  the  other  may  command." 
Loud  laughed  the  King :  "  A  foolish  fisher  thou ! 
"  For  I  shall  win  and  rule  thee  then  as  now." 


69 


So  to  Prince  John,  a  sober  soul,  sedate 

And  slow,  King  Martin  left  the  helm  of  state, 

While  to  the  novel  game  with  eager  zest 

He  all  his  time  and  all  his  powers  addrest. 

Sure  such  a  sight  was  never  seen  before ! 

For  robed  and  crowned  the  monarch  trod  the 

shore ; 

His  golden  hooks  were  decked  with  feathers  fine, 
His  jewelled  reel  ran  out  a  silken  line. 
With  kingly  strokes  he  flogged  the  crystal  stream, 
Far-off  the  salmon  saw  his  tackle  gleam ; 
Careless  of  kings,  they  eyed  with  calm  disdain 
The  gaudy  lure,  and  Martin  fished  in  vain. 
On  Friday,  when  the  week  was  almost  spent, 
He  scanned  his  empty  creel  with  discontent, 
Called  for  a  net,  and  cast  it  far  and  wide, 
And  drew  —  a  thousand  minnows  from  the  tide ! 
Then  came  the  fisher  to  conclude  the  match, 
And  at  the  monarch's  feet  spread  out  his  catch  — 
A  hundred  salmon,  greater  than  before  — 
"  I  win !  "  he  cried :    "  the   King  must  pay  the 

score." 

Then  Martin,  angry,  threw  his  tackle  down : 
"  Rather  than  lose  this  game  I'd  lose  my  crown!  " 


"  Nay,  thou  hast  lost  them  both,"  the   fisher 

said  ; 

And  as  he  spoke  a  wondrous  light  was  shed 
Around  his  form ;  he  dropped  his  garments  mean. 
And  in  his  place  the  River-god  was  seen. 
"  Thy  vanity  hast  brought  thee  in  my  power, 
"  And  thou  shalt  pay  the  forfeit  at  this  hour : 
"  For  thou  hast  shown  thyself  a  royal  fool, 
"  Too  proud  to  angle,  and  too  vain  to  rule. 
"  Eager  to  win  in  every  trivial  strife,  — 
"  Go !    Thou  shalt  fish  for  minnows  all  thy  life !  " 
Wrathful,  the  King  the  scornful  sentence  heard ; 
He  strove  to  answer,  but  he  only  cbirr-r-ed: 
His  Tynan  robe  was  changed  to  wings  of  blue, 
His  crown  became  a  crest  —  away  he  flew ! 

And  still,  along  the  reaches  of  the  stream, 
The  vain  King-fisher  flits,  an  azure  gleam,  — 
You  see   his   ruby  crest,  you  hear  his  jealou? 
scream. 

April,  1904. 


LYRICS 


73 


A  MILE  WITH  ME 

WHO  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 

Along  life's  merry  way? 
A  comrade  blithe  and  full  of  glee, 
Who  dares  to  laugh  out  loud  and  free, 
And  let  his  frolic  fancy  play, 
Like  a  happy  child,  through  the  flowers  gay 
That  fill  the  field  and  fringe  the  way 
Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

And  who  will  walk  a  mile  with  me 

Along  life's  weary  way? 
A  friend  whose  heart  has  eyes  to  see 
The  stars  shine  out  o'er  the  darkening  lea, 
And  the  quiet  rest  at  the  end  o'  the  day,  — 
A  friend  who  knows,  and  dares  to  say, 
The  brave,  sweet  words  that  cheer  the  way 

Where  he  walks  a  mile  with  me. 

With  such  a  comrade,  such  a  friend, 
I  fain  would  walk  till  journeys  end, 
Through  summer  sunshine,  winter  rain, 
And  then?  —  Farewell,  we  shall  meet  again! 

December,  1902. 


SPRING  IN  THE  SOUTH 

JSJOW  in  the  oak  the  sap  of  life  is  welling, 

Tho'  to  the  bough  the  rusty  leafage  clings; 
Now  on  the  elm  the  misty  buds  are  swelling, 
See    how   the    pine-wood    grows    alive    with 

wings  ; 

Blue-jays  fluttering,  yodeling  and  crying, 
Meadow-larks    sailing   low   above   the   faded 

grass, 

Red-birds  whistling  clear,  silent  robins  flying,  — 
Who  has  waked  the  birds  up  ?     What  has 
come  to  pass  ? 

Last  year's  cotton-plants,  desolately  bowing, 

Tremble  in  the  March-wind,  ragged  and  for 
lorn; 
Red  are  the  hill-sides  of  the  early  ploughing, 

Gray  are  the  lowlands,  waiting  for  the  corn. 
Earth  seems  asleep  still,  but  she  's  only  feigning ; 

Deep  in  her  bosom  thrills  a  sweet  unrest. 
Look  where  the  jasmine  lavishly  is  raining 

Jove's  golden  shower  into  Danae's  breast ! 


Now  on  the  plum  the  snowy  bloom  is  sifted, 

Now  on  the  peach  the  glory  of  the  rose, 
Over  the  hills  a  tender  haze  is  drifted, 

Full  to  the  brim  the  yellow  river  flows. 
Dark  cypress  boughs  with  vivid  jewels  glisten, 

Greener  than  emeralds  shining  in  the  sun. 
Who  has  wrought  the  magic?    Listen,  sweetheart, 
listen ! 

The    mocking-bird    is    singing     Spring    has 
begun. 

Hark,  in  his  song  no  tremor  of  misgiving ! 

All  of  his  heart  he  pours  into  his  lay,  — 
"  Love,  love,  love,  and  pure  delight  of  living : 

Winter  is  forgotten :  here 's  a  happy  day !  " 
Fair  in  your  face  I  read  the  flowery  presage, 

Snowy  on  your  brow  and  rosy  on  your  mouth : 
Sweet  in  your  voice  I  hear  the  season's  message, — 

Love,  love,  love,  and  Spring  in  the  South ! 

March,  1904. 


LOVE'S  NEARNESS 

T    THINK    of    thee,    when    golden    sunbeams 

shimmer 
Across  the  sea ; 
And   when   the  waves   reflect   the   moon's   pale 

glimmer, 
I  think  of  thee. 

I  see  thy  form,  when  down  the  distant  highway 

The  dust-clouds  rise; 
In  deepest  night,  above  the  mountain  by-way, 

I  see  thine  eyes. 

I  hear  thee  when  the  ocean-tides  returning 

Loudly  rejoice ; 
And  on  the  lonely  moor,  in  stillness  yearning, 

I  hear  thy  voice. 

I  dwell  with  thee :  though  thou  art  far  removed, 

Yet  art  thou  near. 

The    sun    goes    down,    the    stars    shine    out,  — 
Beloved, 

Ah,  wert  thou  here ! 

From  Goethe:  "  Nahe  des  Oeliebten." 


TWO  SCHOOLS 

T  PUT  my  heart  to  school 

In  the  world,  where  men  grow  wise, 
"  Go  out,"  I  said,  "  and  learn  the  rule ; 
"  Come  back  when  you  win  a  prize." 

My  heart  came  back  again : 

"  Now  where  is  the  prize?  "  I  cried.  — 

"  The  rule  was  false,  and  the  prize  was  pain, 

*'  And  the  teacher's  name  was  Pride." 


79 


I  put  my  heart  to  school 

In  the  woods,  where  veeries  sing, 

And  brooks  run  cool  and  clear; 

In  the  fields,  where  wild  flowers  spring, 

And  the  blue  of  heaven  bends  near. 

"  Go  out,"  I  said :  "  you  are  half  a  fool, 

"  But  perhaps  they  can  teach  you  here." 

"  And  why  do  you  stay  so  long, 
"  My  heart,  and  where  do  you  roam?  " 
The  answer  came  with  a  laugh  and  a  song, 
"  I  find  this  school  is  home." 

April,  1901. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  A  MOTHER'S  BIRTHDAY 

TORD  JESUS,  Thou  hast  known 

A  mother's  love  and  tender  care : 
And  Thou  wilt  hear,  while  for  my  own 

Mother  most  dear  I  make  this  birthday  prayer. 

Protect  her  life,  I  pray, 

Who  gave  the  gift  of  life  to  me ; 
And  may  she  know,  from  day  to  day, 

The  deepening  glow  of  Life  that  comes  from 
Thee. 

As  once  upon  her  breast 

Fearless  and  well  content  I  lay, 
So  let  her  heart,  on  Thee  at  rest, 

Feel  fears  depart  and  troubles  fade  away. 


3t 


Her  every  wish  fulfill; 

And  even  if  Thou  must  refuse 
In  anything,  let  Thy  wise  will 

A  comfort  bring  such  as  kind  mothers  use. 

Ah,  hold  her  by  the  hand, 

As  once  her  hand  held  mine ; 
And  though  she  may  not  understand 

Life's  winding  way,  lead  her  in  peace  divine. 

I  cannot  pay  my  debt 

For  all  the  love  that  she  has  given ; 
But  Thou,  love's  Lord,  wilt  not  forget 

Her    due    reward,  —  bless    her    in    earth    and 
heaven. 

July,  1903. 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

A   SOFT  veil  dims  the  tender  skies, 

And  half  conceals  from  pensive  eyes 

The  bronzing  tokens  of  the  fall ; 
A  calmness  broods  upon  the  hills, 
And  summer's  parting  dream  distills 

A  charm  of  silence  over  all. 

The  stacks  of  corn,  in  brown  array, 
Stand  waiting  through  the  placid  day, 

Like  tattered  wigwams  on  the  plain; 
The  tribes  that  find  a  shelter  there 
Are  phantom  peoples,  forms  of  air, 

And  ghosts  of  vanished  joy  and  pain. 


At  evening  when  the  crimson  crest 
Of  sunset  passes  down  the  West, 

I  hear  the  whispering  host  returning; 
On  far-off  fields,  by  elm  and  oak, 
I  see  the  lights,  I  smell  the  smoke,  — 

The  Camp-fires  of  the  Past  are  burning. 

Tertius  and  Henry  Van  Dyke. 
November,  1903. 


ONE  WORLD 

"  The  worlds  in  which  we  live  are  two 
The  world  '  I  am  '  and  the  world  *Ido.f" 

HTHE  worlds  in  which  we  live  at  heart  are  one, 
The  world  "I  am,"  the  fruit  of  "I  have 

done"; 

And  underneath  these  worlds  of  flower  and  fruit, 
The  world  "  I  love,"  —  the  only  living  root. 


HIDE  AND  SEEK 
i 

A  LL  the  trees  are  sleeping,  all  the  winds  are  still, 
All  the  flocks  of  fleecy  clouds  have  wandered 

past  the  hill; 
Through  the  noonday  silence,  down  the  woods  of 

June, 
Hark,  a  little  hunter's  voice  comes  running  with 

a  tune. 

"  Hide  and  seek ! 
"  When  I  speak, 
"  You  must  answer  me : 
"  Call  again, 
"  Merry  men, 
"  Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-ee ! " 


Now  I  hear  his  footsteps,  rustling  through  -he 

grass : 

Hidden  in  my  leafy  nook,  shall  I  let  him  pass? 
Just  a  low,  soft  whistle,  —  quick  the  hunter  turns, 
Leaps  upon  me  laughing,  rolls  me  in  the  ferns. 

"  Hold  him  fast, 

"  Caught  at  last ! 

"  Now  you  're  it,  you  see. 

"  Hide  your  eye, 

"  Till  I  cry, 
"  Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-eel" 


II 

Long  ago  he  left  me,  long  and  long  ago : 

Now  I  wander  through  the  world  and  seek  him 

high  and  low ; 

Hidden  safe  and  happy,  in  some  pleasant  place,  — 
Ah,  if  I  could  hear  his  voice,  I  soon  should  find  his 

face. 

Far  away, 
Many  a  day, 
Where  can  Barney  be? 
Answer,  dear, 
Don't  you  hear? 
Coo-ee,  coo-ee,  coo-ee! 


Birds  that  in  the  spring-time  thrilled  his  heart 

with  joy, 
Flowers  he  loved  to  pick  for  me,  mind  me  of  my 

boy. 

Surely  he  is  waiting  till  my  steps  come  nigh ; 
Love  may  hide  itself  awhile,  but  love  can  never 

die. 

Heart,  be  glad, 
The  little  lad 

Will  call  some  day  to  thec : 
"  Father  dear, 
*'  Heaven  is  here, 
"  Coo-ee,  coo-ee;.  coo-e*l" 

January,  igoo. 


DULOS  MEMORIA 

f  ONG,  long  ago  I  heard  a  little  song, 

(Ah,  was  it  long  ago,  or  yesterday?) 
So  lowly,  slowly  wound  the  tune  along, 

That  far  into  my  heart  it  found  the  way : 
A  melody  consoling  and  endearing; 
And  still,  in  silent  hours,  I  'm  often  hearing 

The  small,  sweet  song  that  does  not  die  away. 

Long,  long  ago  I  saw  a  little  flower,  — 
(Ah,  was  it  long  ago,  or  yesterday?) 

So  fair  of  face  and  fragrant  for  an  hour, 
That  something  dear  to  me  it  seemed  to  say : 

A  thought  of  joy  that  blossomed  into  being 

Without  a  word ;  and  now  I  'm  often  seeing 
The  friendly  flower  that  does  not  fade  away. 


Long,  long  ago  we  had  a  little  child,  — 
(Ah,  was  it  long  ago,  or  yesterday?) 

Into  his  mother's  eyes  and  mine  he  smiled 
Unconscious  love ;  warm  in  our  arms  he  lay. 

An  angel  called!    Dear  heart,  we  could  not  hold 
him; 

Yet  secretly  your  arms  and  mine  infold  him  — 
Our  little  child  who  does  not  go  away. 

Long,  long  ago?    Ah,  memory,  make  it  clear  — 
(It  was  not  long  ago,  but  yesterday,) 

So  little  and  so  helpless  and  so  dear  — 
Let  not  the  song  be  lost,  the  flower  decay ! 

His  voice,  his  waking  eyes,  his  gentle  sleeping : 

The  smallest  things  are  safest  in  thy  keeping. 
Sweet  memory,  keep  our  child  with  us  alway. 

April,  1903. 


AUTUMN  IN  THE  GARDEN 

TX7HEN  the  frosty  kiss  of  Autumn  in  the  dark 

Makes  its  mark 
On  the  flowers,  and  the  misty  morning  grieves 

Over  fallen  leaves ; 
Then  my  olden  garden,  where  the  golden  soil 

Through  the  toil 
Of  a  hundred  years  is  mellow,  rich,  and  deep, 

Whispers  in  its  sleep. 

'Mid  the  crumpled  beds  of  marigold  and  phlox, 

Where  the  box 
Borders  with  its  glossy  green  the  ancient  walks, 

There  's  a  voice  that  talks 

Of  the  human  hopes  that  bloomed  and  withered 
here 

Year  by  year,  — 

Dreams  of  joy,  that  brightened  all  the  labouring 
hours, 

Fading  as  the  flowers. 


92 


Yet  the  whispered  story  does  not  deepen  grief; 

But  relief 
For  the  loneliness  of  sorrow  seems  to  flow 

From  the  Long-Ago, 
When  I  think  of  other  lives  that  learned,  like  mine, 

To  resign, 
And  remember  that  the  sadness  of  the  fall 

Comes  alike  to  all. 

What  regrets,  what  longings  for  the  lost  were 
theirs ! 

And  what  prayers 
For  the  silent  strength  that  nerves  us  to  endure 

Things  we  cannot  cure ! 
Pacing  up  and  down  the  garden  where  they  paced, 

I  have  traced 
All  their  well-worn  paths  of  patience,  till  I  find 

Comfort  in  my  mind. 


Faint  and  far  away  their  ancient  griefs  appear : 

Yet  how  near 
Is  the  tender  voice,  the  careworn,  kindly  face, 

Of  the  human  race ! 

Let    us   walk    together   in   the   garden,    dearest 
heart,  — 

Not  apart ! 

They  who  know  the  sorrows  other  lives  have 
known 

Never  walk  alone. 

October,  1903. 


94 


THE  MESSAGE 

1Y7AKING  from  tender  sleep, 
My  neighbour's  little  child 
Put  out  his  baby  hand  to  me, 
Looked  in  my  face,  and  smiled. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  came 

Home  from  a  happy  land, 
To  tell  me  something  that  my  heart 

Would  surely  understand. 

Somewhere,  among  bright  dreams, 
A  child  that  once  was  mine 

Had  whispered  wordless  love  to  him, 
And  given  him  a  sign. 


Comfort  of  kindly  speech, 

And  counsel  of  the  wise, 
Have  helped  me  less  than  what  I  read 

In  those  deep-smiling  eyes. 

Sleep  sweetly,  little  friend, 
And  dream  again  of  heaven : 

With  double  love  I  kiss  your  hand,  — 
Your  message  has  been  given. 


November,  1903. 


96 


LIGHT  BEWEEN  THE  TREES 

TONG,  long,  long  the  trail 

Through  the  brooding  forest-gloom, 
Down  the  shadowy,  lonely  vale 
Into  silence,  like  a  room 

Where  the  light  of  life  has  fled, 
And  the  jealous  curtains  close 
Round  the  passionless  repose 
Of  the  silent  dead. 

Plod,  plod,  plod  away, 

Step  by  step  in  mouldering  moss; 
Thick  branches  bar  the  day 

Over  languid  streams  that  cross 

Softly,  slowly,  with  a  sound 
In  their  aimless  creeping 
Like  a  smothered  weeping, 
Through  the  enchanted  ground. 


"  Yield,  yield,  yield  thy  quest," 

Whispers  through  the  woodland  deep ; 
"  Come  to  me  and  be  at  rest ; 
"  I  am  slumber,  I  am  sleep." 

Then  the  weary  feet  would  fail, 
But  the  never-daunted  will 
Urges  "  Forward,  forward  still ! 
"  Press  along  the  trail !  " 

Breast,  breast,  breast  the  slope! 

See,  the  path  is  growing  steep. 
Hark !  a  little  song  of  hope 
When  the  stream  begins  to  leap. 

Though  the  forest,  far  and  wide, 
Still  shuts  out  the  bending  blue, 
We  shall  finally  win  through, 
Cross  the  long  divide. 


On,  on,  onward  tramp ! 

Will  the  journey  never  end? 
Over  yonder  lies  the  camp ; 
Welcome  waits  us  there,  my  friend. 

Can  we  reach  it  ere  the  night? 
Upward,  upward,  never  fear! 
Look,  the  summit  must  be  near; 
See  the  line  of  light ! 

Red,  red,  red  the  shine 

Of  the  splendour  in  the  west, 
Glowing  through  the  ranks  of  pine, 

Clear  along  the  mountain-crest! 
Long,  long,  long  the  trail 
Out  of  sorrow's  lonely  vale ; 

But  at  last  the  traveller  sees 

Light  between  the  trees! 


March,  1904. 


99 


RELIANCE 

to  the  swift,  the  race: 
Not  to  the  strong,  the  fight: 
Not  to  the  righteous,  perfect  grace : 
Not  to  the  wise,  the  light. 

But  often  faltering  feet 
Come  surest  to  the  goal ; 
And  they  who  walk  in  darkness  meet 
The  sunrise  of  the  soul. 

A  thousand  times  by  night 
The  Syrian  hosts  have  died ; 
A  thousand  times  the  vanquished  right 
Hath  risen,  glorified. 


100 


The  truth  the  wise  men  sought 
Was  spoken  by  a  child ; 
The  alabaster  box  was  brought 
In  trembling  hands  defiled. 

Not  from  my  torch,  the  gleam, 
But  from  the  stars  above : 
Not  from  my  heart,  life's  crystal  stream, 
But  from  the  depths  of  Love. 

October,  1903. 


101 


GREETINGS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 


103 


KATRINA'S  SUN-DIAL 

JJOURS  fly, 

Flowers  die: 
New  days, 
New  ways : 
Pass  by ! 
Love  stays. 


Time  is 

Too  Slow  for  those  who  Wait, 
Too  Swift  for  those  who  Fear, 
Too  Long  for  those  who  Grieve, 
Too  Short  for  those  who  Rejoice ; 
But  for  those  who  Love, 
Time  is  not. 


105 


TO  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 
On  his  "  Book  of  Joyous  Children  n 

is  a  garden  of  old-fashioned  flowers; 
Joyous  children  delight  to  play  there; 
Weary  men  find  rest  in  its  bowers, 
Watching  the  lingering  light  of  day  there. 

Old-time  tunes  and  young  love's  laughter 

Ripple  and  run  among  the  roses ; 
Memory's  echoes,  murmuring  after, 

Fill  the  dusk  when  the  long  day  closes. 

Simple  songs  with  a  cadence  olden  — 

These  you  learned  in  the  Forest  of  Arden : 

Friendly  flowers  with  hearts  all  golden  — 
These  you  borrowed  from  Eden's  garden. 

This  is  the  reason  why  all  men  love  you ; 

Truth  to  life  is  the  charm  of  art : 
Other  poets  may  soar  above  you  — 

You  keep  close  to  the  human  heart. 

December,  1903. 


106 


A  HEALTH  TO  MARK  TWAIN 
At  his  Birthday  Feast 

T7K7ITH  memories  old  and  wishes  new 

We  crown  our  cups  again, 
And  here  's  to  you,  and  here 's  to  you 

With  love  that  ne'er  shall  wane ! 
And  may  you  keep,  at  sixty-seven, 
The  joy  of  earth,  the  hope  of  heaven, 
And  fame  well-earned,  and  friendship  true, 

And  peace  that  comforts  every  pain, 
And  faith  that  fights  the  battle  through, 
And  all  your  heart's  unbounded  wealth, 
And  all  your  wit,  and  all  your  health,  — 
Yes,  here  's  a  hearty  health  to  you, 
And  here  's  to  you,  and  here  's  to  you, 

Long  life  to  you,  Mark  Twain. 


107 


A  RONDEAU  OF  COLLEGE  RHYMES 


college  rhymes,  —  how  light  they  seem, 
Like  little  ghosts  of  love's  young  dream 
That  led  our  boyish  hearts  away 
From  lectures  and  from  books,  to  stray 
By  flowery  mead  and  flowing  stream  ! 

There  's  nothing  here,  in  form  or  theme, 
Of  thought  sublime  or  art  supreme  : 

We  would  not  have  the  critic  weigh 
Our  college  rhymes. 

Yet  if,  perchance,  a  slender  beam 
Of  feeling's  glow  or  fancy's  gleam 

Still  lingers  in  the  lines  we  lay 

At  Alma  Mater's  feet  today, 
The  touch  of  Nature  may  redeem 
Our  college  rhymes. 

May,  1904. 


1 08 


THE  MOCKING-BIRD 

T  N  mirth  he  mocks  the  other  birds  at  noon, 

Catching  the  lilt  of  every  easy  tune ; 
But  when  the  day  departs  he  sings  of  love,  — 
His  own  wild  song  beneath  the  listening  moon. 

March,  1904. 


ICQ 


THE  EMPTY  QUATRAIN 

A   FLAWLESS  cup :  how  delicate  and  fine 

The  flowing  curve  of  every  jewelled  line ! 
Look,  turn  it  up  or  down,  't  is  perfect  still,  — 
But  holds  no  drop  of  life's  heart-warming  wine. 

April,  1904. 


INSCRIPTIONS  FOR  A  FRIEND'S  HOUSE 

THE   HOUSE 

'"THE  cornerstone  in  Truth  is  laid, 

The  guardian  walls  of  Honour  made, 
The  roof  of  Faith  is  built  above, 
The  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  Love : 
Though  rains  descend  and  loud  winds  call, 
This  happy  house  shall  never  fall. 


ttz 


THE    DOORSTEAD 

T*HE  lintel  low  enough  to  keep  out  pomp  and 

pride: 

The  threshold  high  enough  to  turn  deceit  aside : 
The  doorband  strong  enough  from  robbers  to 

defend : 
This  door  will  open  at  a  touch  to  welcome  every 

friend. 


112 


THE   HEARTHSTONE 

TXT'HEN  the  logs  are  burning  free, 
Then  the  fire  is  full  of  glee : 
When  each  heart  gives  out  its  best, 
Then  the  talk  is  full  of  zest : 
Light  your  fire  and  never  fear, 
Life  was  made  for  love  and  cheer. 


THE   SUN-DIAL 


can  never  take 
What  Time  did  not  give; 
When  my  shadows  have  all  passed, 
You  shall  live. 


iHE  STATUE  OF  SHERMAN 
BY  ST.  GAUDENS 

T*HIS  is  the  soldier  brave  enough  to  tell 

The  glory-dazzled  world  that  '  war  is  hell ' : 
Lover  of  peace,  he  looks  beyond  the  strife, 
And  rides  through  hell  to  save  his  country's  life. 

April,  1904. 


THE  SUN-DIAL  AT  WELLS  COLLEGE 

"THE  shadow  by  my  finger  cast 

Divides  the  future  from  the  past: 
Before  it,  sleeps  the  unborn  hour 
In  darkness,  and  beyond  thy  power: 
Behind  its  unreturning  line, 
The  vanished  hour,  no  longer  thine : 
One  hour  alone  is  in  thy  hands,  — 
The  NOW  on  which  the  shadow  stands. 

March,  1904. 


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